Broken Threads
by Autumn Stone
Summary: Tortall’s future… Tortall’s past. They are connected, but the bonds that hold them together are slowly falling apart. And it falls to Alanna’s descendant- with the help of the Dominion Jewel and the gods themselves- to put them together again.


**Title: **Broken Threads

**Author: **Shakith

**Category: **Tamora Pierce- General/Fantasy

**Rating: **PG

**Summary: **Tortall's future…  Tortall's past.  They are connected, but the bonds that hold them together are slowly falling apart.  And it falls to Alanna's descendant- with the help of the Dominion Jewel and the gods themselves- to put them together again.

**Disclaimer: **This is a work of fanfiction.  I am not Tamora Pierce, nor do I intend to make money by the use of her characters or setting.  This is the only chapter in which this disclaimer will appear, so if you are somehow offended by the lack if its presence in later chapters, you can always look back here and see it again.

**Prologue: 'Can't Even Light a Candle…'**

Somewhere by the bank of a snowmelt river on the Roof of the World, Old Chitral waited.  In one hand he held his Jewel, glowing soft violet against the pale ice, the other was empty.  For the second time in a millennium he assumed the form of a great rock-ape, crouching there by the shore of the river behind the cave where he'd once fought a woman with eyes as violet as the Jewel he now held.  For the second time in a millennium he held the Jewel that he had spent so long in the crafting of.  But the Jewel did not, could not, belong to him.  He had not meant it that way.  The Jewel was a thing for men and kingdoms, not for an ancient elemental hiding in the mountains.  He could not keep it.  Soon, very soon, it would find its way back into the world of mortals, for their land was, at present, much in need of it.  With a long breath that might have been a sigh and might have been the icy mountain wind itself, the rock-ape that was Chitral faded, seeming to melt into the snow, leaving only a fading violet glow where the Jewel had once rested.  

            "Merciful Mother!"  Sarra cursed as the flame flared suddenly upward and painfully brighter, a long, thin, thread of the amethyst light that was her Gift appearing at its center.  "Alan, I can't hold it steady."  Her brother was there in an instant, exerting the force of his own Gift on the flame until it faded to the height that one would usually prescribe to a candle.   "Can't even light a candle…" she muttered to herself as Alan went back to whatever he was doing.  It was a phrase usually said of mages whose Gifts were so weak, or who were so drained, that they had not the strength to kindle a small flame.  This didn't apply to her, not really, but it was true all the same.  Alan had promised her to teach more of the use of her Gift by her tenth birthday, but so far he was not succeeding.  "Can't even light a candle…" She'd been working on this all morning long, a birthday, she thought rather bitterly, that was entirely wasted.  It had always been strange living in a family where two Gifted children had been born to unGifted parents- not to say that her parents had no magic at all.  Her father was what they called a wildmage, and a powerful one, though not as powerful as his famed ancestor.  Sarra's was a family of many famed ancestors, and not one of them- the famed ones, at least- were without some form of magic, be it the Gift, the Sight, or the wild magic of her father.  But since her father's magic was much different than hers or Alan's, he had been able to teach her little about the use of her Gift, and Alan had spent much of her life at the University.  Now, for her birthday, he had come back to Pirate's Swoop in an attempt to teach her.  'An untrained Gift,' he'd started off by telling her, 'is very, very dangerous, especially one that has the potential to be as powerful as yours does.'  And then he'd set her to lighting candles.  In a controlled fashion.  

            She grimaced at the still-burning candle that Alan had lit, and then blew it out.  _Just one more try.  One more try and I'll rest._  Already, the repeated, excessive use of her Gift was making her tired, but she was not the kind of person who gave up just because of a little exhaustion.  She concentrated on the candle again, willing it to light- but not _too_ much, she remembered- willing the smoking, ash-colored wick to burst into flame, bright burning flame that would consume-  "You're concentration too hard."  Alan's voice made her jump.  "You're not trying to turn _into_ a fire- when you use that much effort you come out with something like the last time.  This kind of thing only takes a little bit of your Gift to make the candle light, so try to do it without thinking to much about it."

            "But I _can't_," she said, with the realization that her voice had risen to a whine.  "I just can't _do_ it like that.  I have to—"

            Alan interrupted her.  "Maybe fire just isn't your specialty.  Or maybe you're just too tired.  And I know for certain that I'll never be as good a teacher as the ones I had at the University.  There's hundreds of reasons why you could be having a hard time besides 'just can't do it like that.'"  He grinned, although rather weakly.  "You probably should get some rest.  How long have you been at this, hours…?  Mithros, Sarra, if I were you I would be unconscious by now!  No wonder you aren't able to control it."  He moved the candle out of her reach, while she glared at him irritably.  

            "I _could_ have kept going," she said, not moving from the table.  "Just give me a few more tries and I'll…" She stopped for a moment to yawn, and he grinned as if this proved his point.  "I'm really not that tired," she said.  "I can keep going!  Just one more, I can do it with one more try…" She yawned again, and glared at him when he raised one eyebrow.  

            "Sarra, you need to get some rest.  You're sure to be drained, and you've never done this before.  You don't know how much…" He stopped, for she had collapsed on the table, obviously asleep, and shook his head.  If she had only heeded his advice, she might have woken lying on a soft pillow, and not on the hard, uncomfortable surface.  Let that be a lesson to her then, both in magic and in obedience… or at least caution.

_In her dream, Sarra stood on a high place, a forest on a mountain of some sort, before a woman in green.  "You should not have overtaxed yourself, Daughter," the woman said, her calm voice strangely familiar._

_            "Who are you?"  Sarra asked, feeling that her question was rude but that she needed to ask anyway.  "What is this place?"  She remembered that it was a dream, and the usual rules did not apply- but she was curious, and if it was only a dream, what was the harm in asking?_

_            "I am the Green Lady," the woman said, and Sarra remembered someone- was it her father?- speaking of a Northern goddess of forests and healing.  A goddess, then.  She was speaking to a goddess.  For some reason, this did not seem strange to her, and so she simply waited for the woman to continue.  And so she did.  "Did you not know?"  Where you not told?"  The note of genuine curiosity in her voice did not strike Sarra as an emotion that a goddess would feel often.  "If they did not see fit to tell you, then I suppose I should not either."  She looked down to the needle-coated earth below them.  "This is a warning, then—be careful how you use your Gift, for such as happened today can be dangerous indeed."  And then she was gone, and Sarra was simply standing alone among the trees in some place that was not the mortal realm._

            When she awoke it was dark outside, and she caught herself wondering why her bed was so uncomfortable before she remembered where she was.  _Gift.  Alan was teaching me how to use my magic. _But—why had she fallen asleep, then?  Why was she lying on a table, why was it dark—_'You should not have overtaxed yourself, Daughter.'_  Again, Sara heard the Green Lady's voice and remembered her dream.  _Should not have overtaxed myself- ha!  I could have gone on._  _But then, _another part of her went on to say,_ Why are you lying her on the table like this, if it would have been so easy to keep going?  Could have kept going but for the fact that you managed to fall asleep for weariness…_  Ignoring those thoughts, Sarra stood up rather gingerly from the table.  It _hurt_, sleeping in such an uncomfortable position.  She should remember not to do it again.   How long _had_ she slept, then?  It had been morning, hadn't it?  Late morning, still—but it was _dark_ now.  Hours and hours at least.  Sarra shook her head and when off in search of her brother.

**To Clarify: **This part of the story takes place at least a hundred years after present-day Tortall- I haven't quite done the math, but in the late reign of Jonathan IV's grandson, assuming that Jon and Roald both live out relatively long life-spans.  Sarra is Daine's descendant (her great, great granddaughter, to be exact) and Alanna's as well, through a marriage of Daine's son Rikash and Alianne's as-yet uncanon daughter.  Basically what I'm trying to say it- don't get confused.  Sarra as the main character of this story is not Daine's mother, nor is Alan Alanna's father or son.   

**Author's Note:** This is not my first piece of Tamora Pierce fanfiction, but it is my first on this account.  I would be more than happy to receive reviews of any kind, except flames- not the constructive criticism kind of flames, but the 'this fic sucks' for no reason kinds of flames.  If you have a problem with my story, I'd like you to kindly tell me why, and I'll do the best to fix it.  Thanks everyone for reading this far, you have no idea how much I appreciate it.  


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